


He Aches

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Delirium, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims The Archivist, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A short fic for a friend on tumblr! The request was for Jon becoming disconnected from the Eye because of a fever. It's less fluffy than the request but I hope it's okay anyway!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 178





	He Aches

Jon is shivering, clinging to the mug of hot tea that he’s made in a failed attempt to stop shivering, and sitting in the break room because he’s not quite sure where he should be instead. 

It’s been like this all day, the cold and the fog and the heaviness in his limbs, but for the past hour or so, he’s not sure, really, it’s been unbearable. Earlier in the day, someone had told him to go home, but as he sits here, blinking at his tea, fearful concurrently that it’s too hot to drink and that it’s gone cold, he cannot remember who it was. 

“I thought I told you to go home,” a voice calls from behind him. He looks. Basira. 

“Basira,” he says, unsure of the tone in which he’s just slurred the first word he’s said in hours. Apparently, it’s one that earns him pity from even the particularly prickly ex-detective, because she frowns, not looking hostile. 

“I’m getting Martin,” she says, and she’s out the door before he can tell her not to waste her time. 

God, he wants to see Martin. He’d love nothing more than for Martin to be sitting here with him, fussing over whatever horrible hell-bug he’s caught and gently telling him all the things he can’t Figure Out right now. 

If Martin can’t be here, he wants the Knowing. 

If he can’t have Knowing, he’d settle for a lowercase “u” understanding, but instead all he’s got is static and cotton and loneliness and no Martin.

“Jon,” a gentle voice calls, and he opens his eyes to discover that he’d closed them at some point. 

He doesn’t Remember doing that. When he opens his eyes, he’s sure that, for the first time in months, that he’s wrong. 

“Martin?” he asks, not daring to believe it’s true until a hand that can’t belong to anyone else because it fits just the way he’s always imagined it would takes one of his, the other reaching up to cup the back of his neck. 

“Yes,” he replies, “Jon, yes. I’m--I’m sorry that I didn’t—”

“Martin.”

“Yes?” 

Jon can’t find more words, so he squeezes the hand, and it squeezes back, and he isn’t sure what happens after that because he stops caring about anything else. 

He wakes on the cot in the spare room to Basira asleep in a chair and with the exact chemical makeup of the paracetamol they’d forced down his throat while he was still delirious shouting loudly in his ears. 

And Martin has gone home. He took the tube that was meant to arrive at 7:40 but which really came at 7:39; he’d had to jog to catch it; the umbrella in his hand had been manufactured eight years before—

He tries to shut it out. He wants more sleep and he still aches. 


End file.
